


Housepet

by benoitmacon (larvae)



Series: Master's House [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Affairs, Collars, Established Relationship, M/M, Master/Pet, Pet Play, Puppy Play, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larvae/pseuds/benoitmacon
Summary: The beginning of an encounter that would have happened early on in Season 3; Elias invites himself to Jon's flat for dinner.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Master's House [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750198
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	Housepet

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in May 2020 with the intention of continuing on for another 5,000 words or so. Seven months later I've made peace with the fact that this isn't going to happen, but I'm happy enough with this intro that I wanted to add it to this series and show it to others.

Jon took in the reflection in his washroom mirror. The three fluorescent tubes that buzzed overhead didn’t do him any favors, and with how little he’d been sleeping lately he could have used a few.

He ran his hands uselessly over his hair a few times before tying it loosely back at the base of his neck. It was unruly and he’d let it grow for too long. And there was so much grey in it now…

Jon adjusted his glasses and ran his palm down his chest, smoothing down his shirt. He didn’t own an iron, though his olive toned button down sorely needed one. 

He felt nervous.

He was dressed -- in his button down, his brown cable knit sweater, his grey slacks and worn dress boots -- like he was going to work. He didn’t have anything dressier. And he hadn’t shaved, partially because he figured he couldn’t get his hands to stop trembling long enough to do so properly and partially because he loved how Elias’ neatly manicured nails scratched through his stubble. It made a nice sound that echoed pleasantly through his skull and reverberated through his jaw.

He hadn’t put on a tie, and the very top button of his shirt was left open, revealing just the edge of his white undershirt. Jon touched two fingers to his neck, pressing until he found his pulse.

It was elevated, as expected.

Jon cleared his throat and continued to fidget, feeling for a moment as if his reflection were an audience. His palms were sweaty. He wiped them off on his jumper before closing them around the brown leather collar resting on his meticulously dried counter.

Raising his arms, he put it around his neck and fastened it just under his Adam’s apple. He could feel it push against his throat when he swallowed. It had been gifted to him for the occasion, and just wearing it was making him hard.

He’d been making coffee in the Archive’s sparsely furnished break room, having attuned a window of time when it would be blissfully empty. Facing any of his colleagues felt at worst like pulling them deeper into something they should never have been made responsible for in the first place, and at best like an invitation to exhume his shame.

Jon, at his best, was bad at keeping secrets. Staying guarded and maintaining distance was one thing, but purposeful secrecy was another. And when secrets left their marks just a hair above where they knew his collar started, it was an altogether futile effort. All this to say that The Archivist carried with him a twisting lattice of variously sourced shame, and it was beginning to bend his back a bit.

He’d been focused on the slowly filling coffee pot in front of him, picturing a miniature of himself at the center of it, the brewing liquid marvelously representative of his growing self pity. That must have been why he hadn’t noticed Elias come in until he was pressed behind him, slipping his arms around his waist and nuzzling his face against his neck.

“Hello, Jon,” he said casually, nipping at his earlobe.

Jon shuddered and caught his wrists, panicking when he realized that he was pinned bodily against the counter in front of him.

“Elias,” he whispered through his teeth, “we aren’t alone here, anyone c-”

“You’re worried we’ll get caught?” Elias asked, with poorly feigned hurt laid over the purr in his voice. He ran his hands down Jon’s torso to rest at his hips and settled his chin against his shoulder so that Jon could feel his beard scratch at his skin as he spoke, brushing against his neck with every movement of his jaw. He squirmed.

“Obviously,” he snapped.

“This won’t take long,” Elias said calmly, and Jon could feel his thumbs pressing into his hips, “I have a gift for you.”

Jon felt his left hand leave his body to reach into his pocket before moving up to dangle a dog collar in front of him.

It was handsome. Dark stained leather with a neat gold stitch running along its edge. The clasp was polished brass, as was the loop set beside it, meant to hold a lead and a set of dog tags. Elias held it between his thumb and middle finger. He moved, and Jon was winded by the assumption that he was going to put it on him. He didn’t, instead sipping it into Jon’s front pocket before bringing his empty hand to cup his waist.

“I’d like to make you dinner,” he said warmly, “and I hoped you’d wear it for me.” Jon felt dizzy.

“Alright,” he managed.

“Excellent!” said Elias, his smile lighting up his voice, “then I’ll come by around eight, how does that sound?”

“Grand,” Jon said through his closing throat. Elias pressed a kiss against the side of his face and swiftly took his leave.

Melanie had found him some minutes past, staring at the long since filled coffee pot, his fingertips resting on his cheek and his mind somewhere else entirely.  
“Hey, have you seen him? Jon? Jon, have you seen Elias? I saw his car out front. Jon? Oh for God’s sake, Jon, what planet are you on?”

Eleven or so hours had passed in a daze and now here he was at his flat at a quarter to eight, deciding whether or not to put on cologne and wondering if whatever was in the blue glass bottle he had laying around from four Christmases ago would damage the leather.

Elias hadn’t asked him for his address but that was hardly a surprise. Jon had cleaned, something he’d had to stop by Tesco to buy the supplies for. But now his counters gleamed, his floors shone, all his stray dust bunnies had been swept neatly under the couch, and all the clothing he’d had strewn across various surfaces was piled up on the floor of his closet. He had, somewhat hopefully, straightened his bedroom, but closed the door to maintain some semblance of coyness. Not long ago he had made peace with never being taken to a bed, and the hope had been reignited suddenly enough to warrant suspicion.

Although, generally, suspicion felt useless, now. It was so laughably stupid to take anything at face value at this point. Nothing was what it seemed, nothing was as it was, no one was who they claimed, and answers were never where he expected to find them. Jon had chosen his port in this storm. The hour was too late and the gale too sour to alter course.

With a razor’s edge of guilt nestling between his ribs, Jon summoned the courage to leave his washroom. It was still a quarter to eight.

His flat was as spotless as it could get at this point, and he was as ready as he’d ever be, which left sitting and shaking on the couch for fifteen of the most agonizing minutes of his life.

Or, it would have, if as soon as he’d closed the door behind him he hadn’t heard a polite knock. Of course. Of course he would’ve known. Nevermind the fact that the lobby of Jon’s building was locked to the public and visitors had to be buzzed in. Best not to dwell on how or where Elias had gotten a key, or why he wouldn’t have needed one.

**Author's Note:**

> Oooooo what happens next? We'll simply never know.


End file.
